Habit

by DBLevin

The pill is a better blue and white
than waves and seafoam
the same pounding
the same sweeping
no one’s footprints
lifted from feet
Were those mine?
Or have I become water, breathing?

The sea from above
the caps of waves
like capsules
like toenail clippings
scattered below me
or aligned
on my crosshatch carpet

Now from below
I am choking–
the pill, like the drink it’s swallowed with
can taste not unlike breathing
But drowning perpetually
held down by the hand of a friend
who’s already developed her medicinal gills
can’t replace lungs